


Did I Forget To Mention That? Whoops! :D

by LinesAndColors



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Arranged Marriage, But platonically at first, I try my gosh darn best while writing about dead democratic guys being gay and also kings, Jamilton - Freeform, Royalty, almosz forgot the obligatory Jamilton tag, because democracy is dead, children being stupid, eventually they'll be an actual thing, hah, im being a whole mess, kingdoms being entire messes, obviously, probably, washington being done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-01-25 16:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinesAndColors/pseuds/LinesAndColors
Summary: "I don't write fanfiction, I'm above that" xe said before prompty writing fanfiction.Anyway, basically, this is these two idiots in an arranged marraige without the pining because I'm ace and I enjoy friends in romantic settings. I mean, eventually I'll probs actually get them together. Probably. Just cause I'm aromantic doesn't mean I can't be a romantic. ;)Anyway, there's some history behind this that vaguely lines up with historical events but for the most part is just me doing things. Alexander and Thomas are both sons of two seperate kingdoms who, basically, have an agreement with an even bigger kingdom (the pilotics of this may get confusing) that they get protection in exchange for a annual payment like kingdoms used to do, but, as the colonies did, the two kingdoms decide to screw that and go on their own but they gotta unite first, how?HAH! Pair up the two sons of course! It's almost like all this was staged by some deranged author to pair them together. :0I don't know what I'm doing to be quite honest.





	1. Washington Wants A New Job And Is Way To Introspective Which May Or May Not Just Be A Sign I Should Be Asleep Right Now

He found he missed this sorely. It had been 5 years since Washington was last in the southern kingdom of Virginia and the sweet, humid air of home did wonders to the constant tension he found he carried these days. The heat and the greenery, the fields apon fields of seemingly endless crops, the glimpses of the hardworking farmers that he _knows_ would carry his home accent, it all served to simultaneously lift and crush his spirits.

Oh how he had missed it.

Yet, even now, only one day away from ending his journey and visit, he still finds his mind wandering back to the new York Kingdom. (Hah.) Comparisons of the cold winters up north to these blazing summers down south, ideas always simmering for the future, and worries on how the cabinet is handling affairs whilst he travels. Oh the worries, so much to consider and so much that could go wrong.

The kingdom of York had only recently adopted Washington as its first king, a position he neither wanted, nor felt he was fit for, being much more inclined to the warmer south he knows. Yet, they needed someone. After the all battles against pockets of uncultured tribes and the threats from kingdoms farther north that caused the northern cluster of the York kingdoms to band together under one monarchy and power, Washington found his transition from general to king all too smooth and sudden.

What had started out as simply a response of the royal family of Virginia to the pleas for help from their northern neighbors turned into Virginia's most renowned military master becoming her allied King, no longer a servant of the royal family he used to follow, but now a peer and feeling so much less than such.

These long years of scrapping together what semblance of a unified government and army he could and leading a new country adding much more grey to his visage then he liked to admit. After it all, returning to his native home was a much needed grounder and reminder of why he was where he was.

And, to add to the therapeutic air of this trip, the knowledge that he is returning home with allies and no longer fighting alone serves as no small comfort. 

Yes, he had missed his dear old Virginian home, but it is with no heavy heart that he returns to the home he's crafted himself up north. With his spirits lifted and hopes for the future refurbished, the road to York no longer seems like the trap it had long ago.

He could do without the constant jostling of the carriage though. That was high on his list of things he missed about York, their infrastructure was much smoother and more suited to the wheels a city required the the hooves of farming horses. It's only with a great private sigh that he admits to himself his age is starting to catch up with him, and to think he's now in a position where retirement comes of lunacy or death serves to redirect his mood back to the more dismal facts of life.

To add to the futile nature of his future, though he loves her very much, having an infertile wife does not make passing on the burden and retiring any easier, and, oh how the two have longed for a child. While trying to balance raising both a kingdom and a child is perhaps not the wisest of decisions, nor the easiest task, (he will never lose his respect to King Jefferson after experiencing just what a hardship this kind of life is) he still finds his thoughts drifting to the idea of an heir with his intelligence and Martha's gentle way with words.

He supposes, as he watches small children run about, covered in mud, on the fields, that adoption is always an option. It's even common place here where same sex marriages and alliances are so common. (Interruption From The Author: because we aren't having homophobia in my house ~~and also plot convenience~~ ) Kings and Queens adopting peasants as a public show of charity and unity between the Royals and the working class oft leads to quite the festival and excitement amongst the countries orphanages and rural towns. 

Yet still, Washington fears that it not really an option either for what are the chances he'd just happen upon the perfect heir out of thousands of worthy children in need of homes. He cannot adopt them all, (though Martha may try to convince him he surely can,) so no, finding the perfect son and heir is but a fantasy and he settles back against the bumpy seat and closes his eyes, determined not to spend the entire trip home lamenting on the regrettables.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Why does the world have such a personalized sense of humour. Yes, Washington loves his people, his citizens, yet being forced by sheer luck and a broken carriage wheel to ride horseback through the crowds back to the castle is just too much. His soldiers keep them back but still, as king he cannot very well scowl the entire way back, and public smiles and shows have never really been his thing. He prefers the action of the battle field or the thrill of strategy, not- this.

And they _scream._ Oh how he despises the screaming, he's not a dragon for the sake of the gods. Nevertheless, he pushes forward with a kingly smile, which is a General smile but with less murder, and waves to the crowd here and there and hopes it ends swiftly.

Hopes which are promptly shattered by a boy all but dances past the guards on Washington's left side. The child ends up halted by those on Washington's right side and is trapped by the wall of soldiers surrounding Washington, right in front of Washington's horse in fact. 

The boy, realizing he's trapped, pants and looks back the way he came from, watching with an apprehension not suited for one as young as he. Just as Washington looks up to see what the boy looks for with such dread, a man pushes his way through the crowd and up to the the guards. He spots the trapped boy and bellows in anger and frustration.

"HAMILTON!" His shirt, which is tailored too small for the man, crinkles as he too, stops and begins panting with exertion. The boy, Hamilton, Washington can only assume, wears a smirk much too satisfied as man chasing him is stopped by the guards. The guards who are looking at Washington expectantly, probably signifying he should do something about this.

"Son-" he starts at the boy which gains a strange glare from him, "What is this about? You've come barreling in front of a royal procession, surely there's a good reason." 

The boy blanches, "You're King Washington." He states, really seeming more to himself then to the Washington, he follows this up with a colorful word a child of, by looks probably 12, shouldn't know. "Sir, I apologize-" with the ability of a rattlesnake, his entire demeanor changes from that of a ratty ally child to, well, nigh a soldier. His shoulders pull back and his eyes glint with the kind of power Washington finds he can't guess at, "I was simply avoiding the influence of men who don't know what they are doing."

At that the man makes a sharp noise of indignation, which is quickly cut off by a guard. The boy casts a side glare at the man but soon returns his gaze to Washington, who considers whether this is truly worth keeping him from a warm castle bed. Something about this child intrigues him though and he turns to the man,

"Explain." The order comes clipped and sharp and the man immediately straightens and begins to cast his eyes nervously about. 

"He- uh, he stole cannons your majesty."

Washington raised a single elegant eyebrow and slowly turned his gaze to the boy who stared back defiantly, not hint of remorse. "What," Washington started, still staring at the boy but keeping his face and voice toward the man, "possible reason could a boy have for stealing cannons." He finally slides his gaze back to the man, who huffs with self conviction.

"The boy listens to too many lunatics," this gains a quiet hiss of disagreement from the boy, "He's bought into the tide of fools who believe we should split from the British King. He's a bastard with no legitimacy or mother, no hand to smack what's right into him." Washington very carefully does not have a reaction to the comment of the recent talks of rebellion, but he does find his interest in this boy growing significantly.

"The _king_ ," the boy spits, rearing up for what Washington can only assume will be a barrage of rebel talk based on the flashes of sheer hatred shining in the boy's eyes as he turns to the man, "is the only lunat-" 

He cuts off immediately as Washington raises a hand, turning to look at the York King with apprehension but, even yet, still no remorse or regret, simple bracing for what may come. Yet more interesting by the minute.

Washington turns to the guards, "Keep the boy with us. He will return to the castle and I shall handle this affair on more stable grounds there." The guards nod and grab the hands of the boy to pull them behind his back. There's a flash over the boys face where Washington can _see_ him consider fighting, but he glances up at Washington and cédés with an angry sigh.

Once the boy is moved out of the way, and with one last glance to the man who looks much to self satisfied, Washington and his trail of soldiers once again start up their march to the castle.


	2. Alex Is Most Deffinately Not Freaking Out ThankYouVeryMuch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander is having the appropriate reaction for a kid who thinks he's being lead to his death, Lafayette showed up even though he wasn't supposed to, I actually looked up historical facts for once, and Washington completely lied about the castle having no cells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've seen some people give trigger warning for anxiety stuff so I guess I should too. This does involve some anxious thought spirals and a panic attack, but I mean, it's a kid walking to his death, he's allowed to panic.
> 
> I totally forgot that when you write something and then post it within a well known Fandom where people can see, you run the risk of people reading it. Haha, I'm not used to this pressure, I usually just write for myself, this is minorly teffifying. ;w; I'm not real experienced at writing things people are actually supposed to read so sorry if something doesn't make sense, that's probably just me assuming that since /I/ get it, everyone else must get it too.

Alexander is most definitely not freaking out. He's the freaking-out-less-est. He is composed. He is imperturbable. He is- needing to stop. No freaking out. He's only being carted away to the castle by his idol, probably for an execution. Nevermind that King Washington has yet to order an execution, it'd just be Alexander's luck to be the first. What a legacy, truely an accomplishment. That, or, Washington has ordered whipping before. He could be whipped.

Which, or course, just sends him down an, by no means panicky of course, spiral about the logistics of whipping and how painful they're likely to be. The answer is, simply, very, probably. Not the worst thing surely, but still rather painful. He can handle it though. Surely the pain of your back being ripped open in nothing compared to your mother dying in front of you! Alexander has totally got this! He'll be fine.

And then they arrive to the large elaborate metal gates that block the entrance to the castle courtyard and Alexander is decidedly _less_ fine then he was a couple seconds ago. He finds his feet halt before the gates as soldiers on the other side drag it open and the guard behind him holding onto the rope he used to tie him (as though Alexander is going to run from the king. Well, actually, now that he thinks of it, running might not be that bad of an idea...) has to push Alexander forward into the courtyard.

What a courtyard it is, everything grows elaborate and aesthetic patterns, not a leaf out of shape, hell, even the bushes look like royal bushes which, idiocy though the idea may be, succeeds in making Alexander remember just what slum he is because even bushes receive better care than him. Gardeners here seem to have more compassion for that which is placed within their care then the majority of the people who have children to see after, and this is also not a good thought stream to be going down.

He shakes his head and looks up at the castle, now needing to crane his head to see the top and, boy if it isn't _even more minacious_ up close. It's not even done yet. The castle is an old relic of the old monarchy and is currently under drastic renovations directed by Washington himself, and that isn't to say it isn't brilliant as most things Washington does are, but currently it looks more like the kind of place storybook children stumble across when they wander into the woods as a way for frightful parents to create even more frightful children and keep the population fearful and under control and pretend like the worst things they have to fear are the things in the woods and not the twisted corrupt breeding pits their own souls are.

Off that subject now. Scary castle is scary is the point.

The walk across the courtyard takes a small eternity of dread and avoided thought spirals. Honestly, the courtyard is way too long in his opinion, nobody needs a courtyard that long but here it is anyway like a devil sent to torture Alexander's soul in preparation for his probable eventual damnation, and damn if the whole place doesn't succeed in intimidation as it presents him no focus but leaves and deliberations and now he's rhyming and he needs to stop.

Scary castles, he reminds himself, scary castles. People are always reminding him that he's too loquacious, (though granted in stupider words so he guesses they have a point if he's even bedizening his recollections of what they say, not to mention that right there...) so, here he is, proving them wrong as always. Scary castle is scary and that's it.

That's it up until they reach the actual doors and then it's scary castle is _alarming daunting dismaying monstrous heap of unforgiving stone and mortar._

Once again his legs stall and once again the guard shoves him forward, breaking him out of his spiral which, while on some level he's thankful, most of him is wondering how many punches he could get in before he was tackled. Probably an impressive few. He knows how to pack a good punch and keep them coming and, again, not the point especially as they enter such an elaborate room. 

Sheer marble white careens sharply up. Columns adorned with curving designs fit for a fairies wing line a beautifully woven rug stained with some exotic deep purple. He can see grand hallways stretching off in any direction in what can only be a maze of fantasy and reality.

The King is walking a little ways in front of him now, no longer on his horse, and isn't that a good confirmation that Alexander isn't freaking out if he didn't even know the actual King of his country, the man his entire future depends solely on, got off his horse. 

The King leads the way through the castle with an air of familiarity. Alexander can't help but notice the small changes in the great man's demeanor. The way shoulders go from being parallel with the floor to ever so slightly downward. The way his gait changes from the planned and calculated march of a soldier, to a smoother more elegant walk that Alexander can only describe as the regal walk of a King. He doesn't know what this change in the Kings mood may entail for himself and his impending life's descent, and that thought, the idea of this consuming helplessness in his ability to define his life, to fight the odds, to dig his nails into the dirt and crawl his way out of the grave Death seems so desperate to dig for him, lays rise to a monster of fear. Something with a great thorny head that arches up in his chest and screams and he finds he _Can't Breath._

 

_He can't breath. The King is before him and he can't breath. The are hands on his arms and he can't breath. His legs buckle and his knees hit the ground and he hears a wretched sob tear from him because he can't breath. The world starts to blur around a single focus point on the floor his eye cling tightly to and he can't take the suffocation so he braces his eye shut and stays there, curled in upon himself with unknown hands touching him and unknown voices murmuring gibberish around him. He can't breath and he can't see and he can't move and he's going to die._

"Hamilton?"

_It's something familiar in the blur of sensations around him and his entire conscious clings to the word as he opens his eyes to desperately try to find it._

"Hhhhhh hhhh hhihhh, hhh Hamilton."

_He finds he can recognize the tones of the voice that said that word and he seeks it out. His eyes dart around trying to land on something useful through this sickening vertigo in his vision and brain._

"Solhhhh hht, htoh hhuchhhg hhm,"

_The voice continues the the longer he searches for it. As he clings to it tighter he finds more and more he can make out the tones and pitches of it. The hands finally come off him and he feels his spine relax as he's_ finally _able to draw a burning breath into his lungs._

"I nheh hou th cahh down Hamilton."

_He nearly sobs in relief again when he finds that voice once more. The voice continues talking this time, a constant stream of the outside world he can grab onto and pull himself out of this void he's found himself in. The tunnel vision fades and his body relaxes as oxygen is introduced back into his blood stream. His lungs still jerk about in the mimicry of human ability much like a puppet, but it is enough._

"There you hh, come on back son, you've set our blood cold there Hamilton. I wonder if you'd feel remorse at even thhh or if you'd preen under such things as primal ego strohhhg."

Alexander finds himself coughing out a weak laugh. Even in the aftermath of a fit he finds the wits enough to respond with a wheezing, "Of course not sir. I would never dream to be so contrary." There is a quick and surprised hearty laughter that follows that and finally he manages to find the face the voice comes from as he turns over to see the king kneeling, (imagine, a king! Kneeling for Alexander, if it were it different circumstances this would have been everything he could have dreamed of...) and looking down at him with a quirked eyebrow and a mixture of concern, confusion, and amusement swirling around in dark brown irises.

"Welcome back to the land of the living son."

"I'm not your son," he shoots back before his brain has time to catch up with his mouth. To hopefully prolong the inevitable execution, he tacks on a small, "sir."

The kings poised eyebrow raises even further and if that's not an oracle's sign of death he doesn't know what is. He rolls his head back over to rest against the floor so he doesn't have to face the same face of disgust and annoyance as always.

"Hamilton, yes? Listen, in light of earlier events," yep, here it was. Alexander says a quiet goodbye to the hope of life that has withered in rot within his chest, "I'd like to be able to talk to you about certain, well," the king pauses, presumably searching for what to say, and that is really not what Alexander was expecting. He doesn't know what he and the king would talk about besides the best ways to prolong his suffering before death. He would recommend the iron bull, that one is a classic. "-rebel matters. But we cannot do it here greeting the floor like common whores so come, get up and follow if your legs will yet support you."

That is, also not what Alexander was expecting, he turns back to look at the King in surprise. “Rebel matters?” this would be a good time to stop talking and just follow the king, “Sir, you can't surely think our prolonged connection to such a volatile nation and king who demands we lay as silent slaves to his will with no say in the decisions that control our very lives is an intelligent idea, morally or fiscally!” or dig his hole deeper. That works too.

The King gives him a _look_ and Alexander isn't quite familiar enough to know exactly what that look means, but by golly if it doesn't make him feel like a small child scolded for taking the laundry off the line. It's been a while since he's felt like this and he finds no desire in himself to feel it ever again. Childhoods are best left where they are; such vile times of blurry understandings of the world have no place in current decision making.

The King stands and brushes himself off, the soldiers surrounding him following that example. One such soldier offers a hand down to Alexander, but, fuck that, Alexander can get up himself, he's not a _child_ and these idiots would do well to stop treating him as such just due to a brief fit. Admittedly, struggling to his feet is not the most graceful display as his hands are still tied uselessly behind his back, but he does it anyway and shoots a ‘screw you good sir’ look at the guard who tried to help him up.

The guard, who looks rather young, looks surprised for a second before his mouth twitches in the halted mimicry of a smile and a twinkle of amusement shines back to Alexander. The soldier mimes tipping a hat to him and Alexander honestly doesn't really know what to make of that. The thought is uncomfortable so he follows behind the King and puts the soldier behind himself where he can't see the strangely knowledgeable gaze.

The party lead by the king travels through too many turns for Alexander to ever have a hope of finding his way back. Now, to be fair, he's only ever lived in a two roomed house or a dormed orphanage, both of which have extraordinarily simple setups, so it cannot be counted against him when he gets lost after only five turns, he's sure that, given enough time, he could run this castles halls like a dream, he's just not used to it now. It's not a failure on his part, but damn if it doesn't still feel like it and add to the overwhelming sense of foreboding. The walk to wherever the king seems to be headed takes both a blip of time and a tortured eternity for Alexander.

The room they end up in could have encompassed the entirety of his mother's old home and probably still have an alleyway to the side. There's an elegant wooden desk that sits by a large arching window and a long table that expands across several artistically carved chairs in the middle of the room. There are chests laying on the edges of the room as well as smaller tables with various boxes, papers, and inkwells upon them. The whole room breaths with the air of scholars and Alexander finds his fingers itching to get ahold of the sheer amount of opportunity sitting in a single room.

The King makes a gesture and Alexander feels the guard behind him taking the rope off. He brings his arms around, rolling his shoulders and stretching to get the beginnings of an ache from them before rubbing at the sore spots on his wrists. He can feel the King watching him but he doesn't know why and knows that, if he looks at the King, he will feel defensive and be unable to prevent himself from glaring at the King, so, instead, he slowly looks around the room as though he hadn't already taken in everything and waits for the Kings cue.

“Have a seat?” he finally turns to look at where the King gestures to a chair that has been pulled away from the table and in front of the ornate desk. The King himself already sits at the mouth of the desk. Alexander, against his self preservation, walks over stiffly and sits in the seat, feeling wildly out of place.

The King raises an eyebrow at him, “Mind answering a few questions?”

“Sir, if this is an interrogation shouldn't you have a guard do it?” Alexander finds himself saying as soon as he thinks it, and of course the brain to mouth filter everyone's tried so hard to instill in him would fail now. Play like you practice and it isn't as though he's given a filter much practice in his life. “Not that you'd need one. I stole the cannons. I'll tell where they are, there's no need to try to drag the answers from me sir, why are we here and not-”

“At a gallow?” The King interrupts him and Alexander winces and nods. “Well, one, I have personal reservations about gallows and punishing children so harshly is unthinkable anyway,” Alexander resents that statement, “and two, this is not an interrogation and you are not to be punished.”

Alexander pulls his mouth into a flat line as the events and the King's words and demeanor run through the cogs of his mind. Things just don't add up and he finds himself lost. He hates being lost.

“Will you allow me to ask my questions or has your curiosity not been sated?” The King continues.

His curiosity is not nearly satisfied, but Alexander nods silently anyway, not trusting his mouth to not say something stupid.

“Now,” The King starts, leaning forward to brace his elbows against the desk. He watches Alexander closely and never has Alexander felt more threatened in his life, “How did a boy of what, 12? Manage to steal cannons?”

“I've seen 15 winters sir.” The response is out of his mouth and Alexander realizes this is probably going to be a pattern. He's always been unabashedly proud of his refusal to hold back and abide by the cutting lines the town’s society tightropes, but now he finds himself wishing he had reserved some small well of self control.

The King pauses, looking surprised, and if that isn't a blow to the ego. Usually Alexander’s young looks work to his advantage; people are much more willing to trust and be fooled by a child then a man-boy. Now though, they just stand to mock him and all he has accomplished. The King leans back in his seat and give a half smile of amusement. “Ah, well, I stand corrected. Still, you are very young-”

“I'm not a child Sir.” Alexander interrupts, this time with no reservations. He will not stand for people to treat him as a helpless sheep to be herded when he works as hard as any adult and has cared for himself for years.

“Your winters aside son, you are most certainly not a man.” The King says with another of his raised eyebrows, looking at Alexander in such a way it's clear he's waiting for a rebuke.

Alexander just leans back into the seat and crosses his arms, looking out of the window instead of at the king, “Not your son.” he mutters under his breath.

Luckily, the King seems to recognize that's as close to a cede as Alexander is going to give and moves on. “My question still stands, how did you manage to steal cannons?”

Alexander smirked as he continued to look at the spring greenery outside the window. “Sheer willpower sir.”

He hears what he can only assume is a huff of amusement at that and sees the king gesture for him to continue with a wave of his hand.

“Well, sir, this city is overrun with young bastards and beggars too intelligent to fall for the blanket of false security that comes from this castle. Especially those without parents to force the mindset upon them, they've caught wind of change and are eager to be a part of the force. There are militia, some left over from the last war, some new, all over this city. A sprawling network of fluttering papers, one I'm proud to be a part of. At the command of a better, I, and friend of mine, lead a group of young waifs to the southern tip and managed to get all but three of their cannons stored there.”

The King's face lights up in recognition, “Ah yes! The raid that left me with a full night’s worth of sleep lost to paperwork and addresses.” Alexander winces again and opens his mouth to apologize, fake though it may be, but the King lifts a hand to stop him, “Don't try, I know any pleasant apologies that fall from you will do so flat. Who gave you the commend?”

At that Alexander's face immediately hardens in a determined glare. “I would sooner face the gallows then give them away.”

The King raises seems a little surprised by that, but nods in concession. “Very well, I can respect that.” Alexander once again, watches the King in confusion at such forgiving behavior. "Mind telling me how, exactly, your militia snuck through?"

Alexander once again presses his lips into a flat line.

The King nods, "I figured as much. Well then, Hamilton," he leans foward again, "Now that we are in trusted company, tell me you opinions on the Mad King."

Alexander raises an eyebrow in suprise. In one part, for the kung using the derogatory nickname Alexander has rarely heard said outside of the slums, and in another part, Very Rarely does someone willingly _ask_ Alexander for his opinion, he wonders how long the king will last before regretting his question as he opens his mouth, "Well, sir, to be quite frank, the system of payment for protection is outdated no matter the king we were hypothetically under. Not only that but this prolonged relationship between us and them has turned vile and stands as a mere imitation of the arrangement we originally hashed out-"

"'We' as in?" The king inturupts with a raised eyebrow and Alexander kinda feels like he's being tested here, and people only test your ability when they doubt your ability and Alexander feels the need to prove himself creep up his spine as he straightens in the seat.

"We as in almost every past monarchy before they fell, we as in the government's that our kingdoms had long before we united and long before the Mad King decided he suddenly wanted us to bend by his rules. The 13 original kingdoms each signed relitively the same deal. Part of our exports in exchange for a vow to not attempt conquest and protect us from any other possible attempts at conquest. We never agreed to abide by their laws, culture, or customs and yet here we are, hundreds of hardworking men crushed under the financial sole of the English Boot all because the Mad King wants money that _he_ wasted on _his_ war. It's simply not a reasonable or even viable option! Sir! We are being bloodied by a knife we willingly let into our backs we cannot continue to lay complacent, he has cost us so much already and openly mocks our self governing, something we've been doing since these kingdoms first arose! They say that to rebel, to fight against, to lend hand to the revolution already pulling itself up will lead to lives lost and lively hoods laid to waste but he's already _doing that._ Basic items we've spent our lives with are reaching prices only the middle class can achieve, it is preposterous to have to pay extra just to drink _tea_ sir." Alexander finds the familiar rush of passion and conviction singing in his blood as his arms gesture jerky with his point. He nearly shouting by the time he finishes and, as he finnally takes a breath, he notices the quirk of amusement to the Kings mouth and a strange calculating gaze in his eyes.

"15 you said? I'm sure I already know the answer, but where is your mother and sire?"

Alexander scowls, "Left behind." He clips off, the previous excitement shuttering to a quick close at the reminder of his parentage. 

“Well,” The King continues leaning back once again and stretching his arms above his head, letting out a few pops, “I cannot very well loose you back to the city while maintaining my image of support for the Mad King, so you must stay here. As of yet, this castle has no cells but I imagine you won't mind a castle room. You'll be staying here under my watch until either I find a solution or find a use for you.”

Alexander spots the small window of offering and opportunity and jumps on it, shoving aside his surprise at the Kings rebellious alignment, “Sir, I can be of much use. I've been keeping accounts since I was 9, I've worked within a trading charter since 13 and, as I've mentioned, I've lead, albeit a small, but affective militia. I speak both English and French and my mother had taught me to read and write hebrew. I swear to you I can do anything you put me to, given at the most a month to learn.”

The King, rather then look surprised at the outburst as most are, gave the smile of a man calling checkmate, “I had no doubt of your serviceability from the start,” he stands and straightens a suit wrinkled by carriage and horse and begins to walk away, “Lafayette here will show you to where you can stay, I look forward to seeing you in action Hamilton.” The King gestured to the same guard who had offered to help Alexander to his feet with his farewell and Alexander can't help but feel everything has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've been reading Shakespeare? We are doing Hamlet in my lit class currently and like, when I read stuff I obsorb it, so there's a lot of places in this where I'm using wierd words and Grammer and it just sounds not modern and I'm sorry. Maybe it'll end once we stop reading this book.
> 
> Also, I actually did research for once and like, the things you can find out about a person through the Internet. Most of my knowledge on the quirks of our founding fathers comes from me reading the end noted of fanfictions honesty, but I haven't seen this fact yet so I wanna add it here.
> 
> Did yall know Hamilton apperantly used to get so lost in thought he'd just start petting a cannon like a dog or a horse? That's awesome to me cause now I'm just imagining this camp full of soldiers watching in confusion and slight fear as Hamilton stares into the nothingness while fondly petting a cannon.
> 
> Also, if all goes according to plan, Thomas /should/ show up next chapter. Things u write rarely listen to me though so just, hope he actually enters the game when he's supposed to and doesn't decide to make a fashionably late entrance.


	3. Basically, The Author Turns Out To Be Terrible At Authoring!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a chapter.

Yo, so, in order to force myself to write like an actual writer, I'd ecided every Wednesday I'd put one out. 

As you can see, I have already failed! For two reasons!

1\. Exams are like children except they're not cute or lovable. 'M tired.

2\. Why didn't I just write it over the weekend? Because I'm lazy!! Also, the last chapter I posted glitched and had faults and ended up not how I wanted and then wouldn't post right, (I'm still not sure ao3 actually posted that chapter at all to be quite honest) and like, you know how most people say, if you get a setback you should like, keep going? I'm not one of those people. If I experience a hiccup in the road I either get scared and become a ball of stress for a few days or I rage quit. This time I took the former option, so, instead of writing, if just stressed instead. 

However, I do have the outline for the chapter and, hopefully, now that we are no longer reading hamlet, my writing with sound less like the writing of a pretentious arse. Hopefully.

**Author's Note:**

> I have done basic editing and I'm sorry. I'm just sorta sorry overall.


End file.
